


bloom

by xivz



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: All these clothing kinks, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Bottom Simon, Clothing Kink, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Gay Panic, Humor, Lace Panties, Laundry, Lingerie, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, POV Simon Snow, Praise Kink, Rimming, Romance, Sexual Humor, Shameless Smut, Simon Snow is Gay for Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Simon Snow is a thirsty thot, Smut, Socks, Tube Socks, Women's Underwear, Writer Simon, a little cracky, and they were neighbors, men in women's lingerie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29155386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xivz/pseuds/xivz
Summary: My brain is short-circuiting on me and I don’t know what to do. I’ve been biting at the bits of my cuticles until the skin is so thin it’s threatening to break. See—I have a problem. A massive one—well, no, that’s not right. The problem looks small, they are small, they’re—Deep breath, Simon. In and out, in and out, why am I freaking out as much as I am?Maybe it’s because there’s a pair of black lace knickers in my clean washing basket. And they’re not mine.—•—When Simon Snow finds a pair of black lace women’s underwear in his clean washing basket, his best friend suggests he toss them in the bin. The thing is, he can’t, because he knows who they belong to. His git neighbour Baz Pitch is an elitist arsehole, but he’s fit, and apparently, he enjoys wearing women’s lingerie.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 28
Kudos: 134
Collections: Snowbaz Sweethearts Fic Exchange 2021





	bloom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrisRix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/gifts).



> Kris—you're so hard to write for. I hope you like this.
> 
> Big thank you to my literal team of cheerleaders/brit pickers/betas/friends— **[giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu)** , **[OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn)** , **[waterwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterwings/pseuds/waterwings)** , and **[aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias)**.

My brain is short-circuiting on me and I don’t know what to do. I’ve been biting at the bits of my cuticles until the skin is so thin it’s threatening to break. See—I have a problem. A massive one—well, no, that’s not right. The problem looks small, they  _ are _ small, they’re—

Deep breath, Simon. In and out, in and out, why am I freaking out as much as I am?

Maybe it’s because there’s a fucking pair of black lace knickers in my clean washing basket. And they’re not mine. 

I run my hands through my hair and tug while staring at them. It shouldn’t be such a big deal, right? I mean, it’s not like someone threw them in with my things on purpose. But, I have a feeling I know who they belong to and it makes my stomach squirm. Because the knowledge makes it worse. So much worse.

The building that I live in has a shared laundry room in the basement for those of us who are too poor to have our own washing machines. It’s a shitty cave of a room, with cracking foundation and dingy, yellow coloured wallpaper that has a tiny white spoonflowers pattern that looks like skulls. Mentally, I call the laundry room The Catacombs. It honestly looks haunted as fuck. 

The last person to use the dryer was still there when I went down with my dirty clothes. He was folding everything neatly and hanging his shirts on wooden hangers—because he’s anal like that. 

T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch, my upstairs neighbour. 

He didn’t notice me at first, but I watched him with wide eyes, tempted to slowly walk back up the stairs and hide until he left. He was only wearing jeans and a henley, hair up in a bun and his jaw covered in shadow; but even like that, Baz is still the prettiest person I’ve ever seen. And he hates me. And, and! 

I’m fairly certain, that these—

Tiny... ( _ so _ tiny).

Skimpy... (they look like they barely cover anything).

Delicate... (I feel like they’ll tear, just by looking at them).

Knickers. (Jesus Christ.)

I can’t even—I mean. It couldn’t mean what my mind is trying to tell me it does, can it? 

He—Baz, that is—is also gay. (Not that I’m gay. I mean, I  _ am  _ attracted to men.) (Especially Baz.) (Not that I stalk him or spy on him, but last pride he went out in a full rainbow getup  _ and _ eyeliner.) And, if I were to judge the last argument he had with his boyfriend—it was loud and there was a lot of door slamming—then Baz is single. 

Which means...

The knickers are his. 

Which is terrible. It’s awful. It’s the worst thing to know about him! 

When I say Baz is pretty, I’m not joking. He’s also taller than me by about three inches (git). He’s what I imagine sex on legs to look like. Speaking of—his body is mostly legs. They’re long and his waist is narrow and he has this thick black hair that falls to his shoulders. 

His nose is a little wonky, as if he’s broken it before, but that’s alright; because between his blemish-free skin, and plush mouth, and his bright grey eyes, he needs some sort of physical flaw. No one is supposed to be perfect, but he’s as close to it as anyone can get.

Oh God, if Baz wears women’s knickers, I think I’ll die. 

The knickers found their way home with me—they probably clung to the sides of the dryer and Baz hadn’t noticed. But, they’re lace...Should he putting them in the dryer? Not that I’d know, I spend my days in joggers and occasionally a t-shirt. 

What do I do with them? 

Obviously, I could return them. But the idea of handing Baz his own knickers makes my ears burn. (Would they even cover his bollocks? Oh, fuck.) I could put them in a box and leave them on his doorstep, but that’s weird, innit?

I don’t know what to do. I’m a mess of a human being, if I’m being honest with myself. I hardly ever leave my flat. 

My phone is sitting innocently on my nightstand and I snatch it up, texting the person who holds all of my brain cells. 

**Me** [17:09]: SOS

**Penny** [17:09]: What did you do?

**Me** [17:10]: I found my neighbour's knickers in my washing and idk what to do!

**Penny** [17:11]: Toss them?

**Me** [17:11]: Would it be weird to return them?

**Penny** [17:11]: That is weird, but do it if you want.

**Me** [17:12]: My neighbour is a man.

**Penny** [17:13]: I’m not judging. 

**Penny** [17:13]: Why are you freaking out about this? Wait…

**Penny** [17:14]: Please don’t tell me it’s Baz. 

**Me** [17:15]: Do you think he left them behind on purpose? That he planned for this to embarrass me?

**Penny** [17:17]: Jesus Christ, Simon.

I throw my phone back down. Leave it to Penny to be useless the one time I need her not to be. (That’s a lie, Penny has gotten me out of so much shit.) (I’m the useless one.) 

I stare at the innocent pair of knickers—”innocent” and Basilton Grimm-Pitch should never go together. Are they innocent? Honestly, they look risqué. The type of thing someone would wear for a very special occasion or sex. (Special occasion sex.)

The thought of sex with Baz suddenly comes to mind. With him wearing this tiny piece of fabric. It probably doesn’t even fit his cock,  _ definitely _ not his bollocks. They’d probably ride up his glorious arse a bit. He’d look like a bloody God in them, the type that seduces men; like, a Greco-Roman God or something. I can just imagine all of his smooth, light brown skin. The dark happy trail from beneath his navel. I wonder if he keeps his chest hair or if he waxes? 

The blood rush in my body causes me to heat up, and I can’t help but take off my shirt. Is it inappropriate to have fantasies about your neighbour like this? It’s not like I’m acting on anything. I’m not touching myself. ( _ Yet _ .) 

I should probably eat something, this train of thought is most likely due to low blood sugar. 

I look over at the pile of clean clothes at the foot of my bed, ready to be folded and put away. Honestly, they’re lucky I’m not throwing them onto the floor. Putting away clothes is the worst part of doing my washing, and I can always do it later. Much later. Preferably once I dispose of the tiny black lace garment that stands out like a sore thumb. (I can already hear Penny lecturing me. “You’re thirty-one, Simon! Leaving your clothes to wrinkle like this is unacceptable!”) She wouldn’t be wrong, but, I mean, I—

Oh. 

Wait.

What if Baz goes down to The Catacombs to search for his missing lace? Oh shit, he knows I was there after him. He’ll know that I have them. Dear Lord that would be  _ so _ much worse. What if he comes to my flat and asks for them back? What if he accuses me of being a panty thief?

This entire thing is causing me stress and anxiety and that’s not something that I necessarily need in my life. I do not vibe with that.

Food! Food, Simon! Then sleep. Maybe a shower, too—my hair feels oily against my fingers. 

Admittedly, I’ve had very little of those things over the last few days due to trying to meet my deadline before my editor murders me. I’m practically dead on my feet, and this entire thought process is proving to me that rest is needed. 

I grab my phone again and order a curry. (Plus samosas, they always make shit situations better.) UberEats tells me that it’ll take 45 minutes, which is plenty of time to shower and put away washing. Which, I do. 

I wash my hair, throw on a fresh pair of joggers and put everything away. (I even fold my socks, like some sort of serial killer.) Penny would be proud of my adulting attempt.  _ I’m _ proud of it. It’s truly the little things. (Like the black lace knickers that are left behind on my bed that I’m pointedly ignoring.) 

I turn the telly on, trying to catch up on what I’ve missed over the last few days, deciding to eat dinner on the sofa. My laptop is still on my kitchen table, plugged in and charging; waiting to make me its bitch again. I get these bouts of inspiration sometimes, and it feels like a possession. I don’t stop until the story is told. My latest work is the last installment of my best-selling trilogy, and I’m so close to being finished that I can practically taste it. 

Fatigue begins to sink in after I’ve stuffed myself sick. The news is on, and I idly watch it. Above me, I can hear Baz wandering around his flat, and it reminds me of the fact that I have something that belongs to him lying on my bed. The right thing to do would be to return the knickers, he spent good money on them—at least by the look of them. (I honestly don’t know much about women’s knickers to rightfully say.) (Maybe Baz’ll like me better if I return the knickers to him. Maybe I’ll be seen as a hero instead of his off-kilter neighbour.) (Maybe that’s not the right way to be thinking about this situation.)

I jut my chin as I stand and stretch, going back to my bedroom to throw on the first t-shirt I find—which winds up being two sizes too small with holes around the collar—and some fuzzy pink sliders that Shepard left behind once and never came back for. Jokes on him though, because they’re comfortable and I’ve decided to keep them forever. 

Instead of second-guessing myself, which is something that I never do, I grab the offensive pair of panties. They feel strange against my palm, and I try not to think that they’ve touched the most intimate parts of Baz, and now I’m touching  _ them.  _

I ignore the butterflies in my stomach as I bypass the lift and take the stairs up to his flat, hoping that the stomping would ease my nerves. I’m a man on a mission! I’m only wheezing a little when I reach his flat. (It’s a sign that I need to go back to the gym.) 

Taking in a deep breath, I knock loudly on his door. 

There’s movement behind it, and for a moment I wonder what his flat looks like. Is it a carbon copy of mine when it comes to the layout? Same small kitchen and living space? Same sized bedroom and bathroom? The same window facing the street?

He probably has uncomfortable modern furniture that it’s impossible to nap on and the place probably smells like bleach because he’s always cleaning. Baz seems like a germophobe. 

He opens the door and arches a brow at me—he takes up the entire frame so I can’t even get a peak of anything behind him. Also, I hate whenever he does that eyebrow move, it makes me feel stupid, and I’m  _ not. _ I have a Masters in English Literature for Christ Sake!

“May I help you, Snow?” Baz asks, and I internally curse over how smooth his voice is. 

“Um,” I can feel my face heat up with the bluster. Damn it all. “Uh...you-well-that is...here! This is yours, right? It was mixed in my—in my washing.”

I all but shove the lacy panties at him, not caring if he catches them. Our fingers brush as I let go and he holds on.

I try to ignore how his face flushes a lovely shade of pink. His mouth is agape and his eyes are wide. I’ve caught him off guard and this is his version of being flustered. And honestly? I love it. 

“Cheers!” I say, grinning widely, before running back towards the stairs. Taking them two at a time until I’m safely back home.

* * *

It’s been two days since I’ve last left my flat, but I’m forcing myself to go and check for post. I’m in shorts, my fluffy sliders, and an old t-shirt because I don’t care how my neighbours see me. I’m exhausted to my bones after pulling two more all-nighters. 

I’m just putting my key into the postbox when Baz enters the building. Fantastic, just the man I’d been hoping to avoid. 

His hair is up in a ponytail with flyaways cupping his jaw. He’s wearing trainers and one of those quick-dry performance t-shirts. He smells like outdoors and dried sweat, with a hint of cedar underneath. And, as my initial shock at seeing him fades away, I notice something else.

_ He’s wearing grey joggers.  _

The sight of the fabric clinging to his legs causes my already overworked brain to temporarily hit Error 404. It only worsens when I see how perky his arse is from my peripheral as he comes up next to me to open his own postbox.

“Snow,” Baz says, instead of a proper greeting. I’m not quite sure why he’s such a knob to me when I’ve witnessed him being pleasant to other tenants in our building. 

“Baz,” I nod. I’m careful to avoid any sort of eye contact with him as I close my postbox and lock it behind me, a stack of bills in my hand. My mind is trying to supply me with images of Baz in knickers. I wonder what he’d do if I were to ask him which type he was wearing. (Probably deck me.)

“Look,” Baz says, although it sounds as if it's through clenched teeth. “About the other day-”

“I don’t want to know,” I cut in. Except I do. I  _ want _ to know. 

I turn to him and realize that it’s a mistake. Baz is giving me his undivided attention. His eyes look as grey as the ocean during a storm, and the sunlight from the front door window is haloing behind him, causing the angles of his face to sharpen. He looks angelic. It’s too much. 

“I’m not one to judge you, and honestly, I don’t care.”

I’m a dirty liar. 

I’m invested and I want to see it in person. I’ve touched myself to the idea of it. I’ve written it into my latest book. It’s a problem. 

The apples of Baz’s cheeks flush lightly and it’s a pretty sight, girlish even. I want to put my hands on him. 

“Right,” he says with a nod, taking the out that I’ve provided. 

“Hey,” I say, when I should run away. Really, who prolongs an exchange that’s this painfully awkward? Me. I’m a glutton for punishment, and I’m ready to curl up anywhere and sleep for the next week, but my mouth seems to have a mind of its own, and I have no other choice but to go along for the ride. “We’ve been neighbours for about two years, yeah?

“Yes,” Baz says, but he’s giving me a suspicious look. At least he’s not being a prick to me right now, probably because I have leverage over him. Not that I’d blackmail him or whatever (I’m not that malicious or spiteful). “I think.”

It’s weird to think that we’ve lived in the same building for so long and haven’t done much more than insult each other. Although I can never truly ignore Baz, that’d be like trying to ignore an elephant standing on your chest.

“This is probably the first cordial conversation we’ve ever had,” I say. 

“What’s your point, Snow?” He’s shifting on his feet. I didn’t think he even knew how to fidget. 

“We should hang out sometime,” I blurt. 

My ears heat up almost immediately. What kind of invitation is that? What the fuck is wrong with me? Lack of sleep doesn’t excuse this level of stupidity. I want to face-palm, but instead, I paste an earnest look onto my—probably gaunt—face. 

Baz blinks in surprise. He’s right expressive when he’s not being a tit. It softens him and reminds me that he’s human. 

I’m well aware that I’m chatting up my neighbour—which is a terrible idea. But it’s been four years since the last time I’ve even gone on a date. That absence had been intentional, but I doubt that the universe would have placed this stunning  _ —single— _ man before me, who’s apparently into the same kink as I am, if it wasn’t meant to be. 

(I hadn’t known that I would like blokes in women’s lingerie until I thought about  _ Baz _ wearing it, and now it’s all that’s been plaguing my mind.)

“Should we?” Baz asks, and for a moment I’ve forgotten what it is I’ve said to cause him to react this way. 

Fuck. Wait. Did I essentially just ask if we could Hang Out? Isn’t that another variation of Netflix and Chill? Of which, I have none. Chill, that is. I have no chill. I’m a fucking disaster. This must be some type of fever dream or hallucination. I’m probably asleep at my kitchen table with my face mushed into my laptop keys. (It wouldn’t be the first time.) 

“Why not?” I ask. 

I can feel my chin jutting forward as I give him a once over. Which, of course, was a bad idea. This entire interaction is a bad idea, but it’s too late and I can’t back out now. I refuse. 

“No reason,” Baz says, he locks his postbox, a few envelopes in his slender hand. “Alright, fine. Next Friday then. Come up to my flat around six in the evening. We can...hang out.”

“I’ll be there,” I say, pointing finger guns at him and then immediately hating myself for it. (What the fuck?)

Why does this entire exchange feel more like an upcoming duel than two blokes just hanging out and possibly playing video games? Does he even play games? He looks like the type to own FIFA. Or play football. Just...he has footballer's thighs.  _ Thicc _ .

I nod at him before going back to my place. I throw the bills down onto the coffee table and practically hurl myself onto the sofa before crashing harder than I have in my entire life.

My dreams are filled with black hair and cocky smirks and lace knickers. 

* * *

**Simon** [19:03]: SOS

**Penny** [19:03]: Why do you never text me just to say hi?

**Simon** [19:03]: I’m having a crisis!

**Penny** [19:04]: …

**Simon** [19:07]: Please stop judging me, Penelope.

**Penny** [19:07]: You’ve reached your quota this week. 

**Simon** [19:08]: Fine.

* * *

**Simon** [19:10]: I need help.

**Shepard** [19:11]: I would die for you. 

**Simon** [19:11]: Bro <3

**Shepard** [19:11]: Bro <3

**Simon** [19:13]: I asked Baz if he wanted to hang out. And he said yes! And idk if it’s two bros hanging out, if we’re going to duel to the death, or something else.

**Shepard** [19:14]: Quite the dilemma. Have you asked Pen?

**Simon** [19:14]: I’ve hit my quota.

**Shepard** [19:14]: Yikes. 

**Shepard** [19:14]: Take a gun to a knife fight and wrap it before you tap it. 

**Simon** [19:15]: You’re so wise.

**Shepard** [19:15]: You know it, babe. ^3^

* * *

I’m the stereotype of what people think when they imagine what a modern-day writer looks like. I’m often in pyjamas with mussed hair and reading glasses. My notes and plot points take up an entire wall in my dining area, right across from where I keep my laptop so that I have a perfect view of them and the strings that attach everything into one—sort of sloppy—plot. 

Honestly, I didn’t think that I’d become a best-seller. Penny convinced me to publish my first book a few years ago and it just sort of...took off. At an alarming speed. It was like getting tied to a comet, just hurtling through space. 

When I write, days sort of just run into one another. I get lost in my story. Meals are eaten whenever my stomach reminds me that I’m hungry. Naps are often short, and sleep is—overall—for the weak. I know it’s not the best way to create—like, for my mental health and whatnot—but it’s the only way I know how, and I embrace the inspiration when it hits. 

The problem with having a career that requires you to live inside of your head is that time becomes meaningless. This is why, when my phone alarm reminds me that it’s Friday ( _ the _ Friday), I’m stuck feeling disjointed and out of place. When did that happen? How do days just fly by without any sort of warning?

At least I set a reminder, otherwise, I would have stood Baz up. Not that this is a date. I’m going to his flat to do whatever it is that we’re going to do. (What exactly  _ are _ we going to do?) 

I guess what we’re doing doesn’t matter as long as I attempt to look nice, because Baz always looks nice. Sometimes I see him coming home from work, dressed in fancy pressed trousers and a button-up, with shiny shoes. 

So, I shower and shave, and spend a long time debating on manscaping. (I decide against it at the last minute, it’s not likely that he’s going to be seeing my pubes tonight. Right?) (Regardless, I do a very thorough job of cleaning myself out—you can never be too prepared.) 

I even put products in my hair, because I’m trying. Too hard? He’s going to know that this isn’t me right off the bat; he’s seen me in nothing but my pants more than once (all three times were very unfortunate accidents), and in a dressing gown with my fuzzy slide ons and a patchy beard. He’s seen me when I’ve gone four days without sleep and I'm one step away from going off on an unsuspecting bystander. 

He’s going to know that I’m trying to impress him. 

I can honestly say that I don’t see any of the other tenants nearly as much as I’ve seen Baz. They probably all avoid me, or maybe it’s that I don’t notice them the way I do him. 

Quickly, I shake my entire body out and grab the bottle of rosé that I bought for tonight. I’m not sure if this is an appropriate wine, but I know fuck all about wine and would have done better with cider. But, who brings cider to a—date? Hook up? Whatever the fuck we’re going to do. Wine is wine, right? Maybe I should have asked Agatha about this beforehand; but going to my ex-girlfriend for potential relationship advice may not be the wisest decision. 

Nevermind, I’m doing my best! My therapist would say that’s what’s important. 

At six exactly I find myself knocking on Baz’s door. 

He opens it a moment later, dressed similarly to me. Which, for Baz, is dressing down—I’ve never seen him look this way. It’s disarming and attractive, and the sight of him looking so casual has me want to reach out and touch him (I don’t). His henley is tight across his shoulders and chest, and his jeans look as if they’re painted on. And, he’s wearing socks—the sight of his stockinged feet leaves my mouth dry. It’s entirely too domestic.

“Punctual,” Baz says with a brow raised in that way of his. “You clean up well.”

“Thanks,” I say as he lets me in. I slide my shoes off at the door, grateful that I put on a pair of socks with no holes in them. (I’m a messy human.) “For you.” I hand him the wine. 

“Rosé?” Baz reads the label and there’s a quirk to his lips that’s an almost smile. “Would you like a glass?”

“Sure,” I tell him as I take in his living area. 

The layout  _ is _ the same as mine, but he’s got overly stuffed armchairs and a large sofa in his living room, with a large flat screen mounted to the wall and several bookcases that are full to the brim—in fact, I think I see a few of my novels shoved in with the rest of them. (The sight makes me heart skip a beat.) His dining area is neater, and he has various pieces of art hanging on the walls. There’s a music stand in the corner, where he probably puts his notes while he plays the violin—we can all hear him whenever he does. It’s lovely.

His flat is cozier than I expected. I thought it would be all modern, chrome furnishing and black leather. Instead, it’s almost traditional. With brown leather and wood and rich colours. It looks more like a home than  _ my _ flat. I suppose I’m what’s considered a minimalist. 

“Nice place,” I say as I make my way to the kitchen. He has two glasses out while he searches for the bottle opener. His hair is caressing his cheek and he has the beginnings of a shadow across his lower jawline. It’s delicious and completely,  _ unfairly, _ even—not patchy at all. 

“Thank you,” Baz says. 

That’s when I notice them. He has a washer and dryer in his kitchen. A washer and dryer, yet I always see him in The Catacombs whenever I go to do my washing. Baz doesn’t realize that I see them, and my mind is reeling. Why does he always go down to that tomb if he has a perfectly working system in his home? Unless, he has my schedule memorized. Unless he’s down there for  _ me _ . The idea makes hope well up in my chest. (I may sometimes be slow on the uptake, but I’m not stupid.)

There’s no food ready despite it being supper time, and it makes me wonder—anticipate—what Baz has planned for this evening for us. I know what  _ I _ want, and I think we’re on the same page. 

His arse looks amazing in the jeans that he’s wearing, it accentuates just how long his legs are. (So long.) And the lights are dimmed throughout the flat—mood lighting?

I may be overthinking things, but Baz seems to be plotting to seduce me. Although, now he’s a bit flustered since he can’t find his corkscrew. Maybe he’s overthinking this, too. 

Baz sighs softly to himself and I grab his hand before he can open another drawer in his search. 

I can’t help but smile. It’s been a long while since I’ve been with anyone—or even tried to pull in general. Yet, the fact that Basilton Pitch—the man who always looks so put together and perfect—is having a hard time with it, warms my insides.

Baz’s cheeks are flushing and he’s looking at me in a way that leaves me breathless. I can feel butterflies erupting in my stomach, and the anticipation of what could—should—occur between us is overwhelming. We could have probably been doing this for a while instead of arguing and dancing around each other in the corridors. 

He peers at me and I can’t help but fall into his eyes. They’re a lovely colour. Everything about him is lovely. 

I can work with this, with him like this. 

“Relax,” I say, and I can’t help but bring myself closer to him, wanting to feel his body heat radiating off of him. There’s very little distance between us, and I lean forward to close the gap. 

His lips are soft and pliant.His chin scratches against my smooth skin, but I relish in the beard burn, it feels good. Where our mouths meet is electric, and Baz is pliable against me, going with the soft movement of my jaw. It’s tender, softer than I expected, and leaves me dizzy. 

When I pull away from him, I can’t help but stare up at him (always up, he’s at least three inches taller than me). His eyes are the colour of a storm cloud and his mouth is swollen in the best of ways. I made him look like that, and I want to  _ keep _ him looking like that. 

“You know,” I say, a smile crawling up my face, “maybe next time, we can go out to eat? Like boyfriends?”

Baz arches a brow at me. “You want to to be my boyfriend?”

I huff a small laugh, “I do.” I think I have for a while, but I don’t tell him that. I don’t mind coming on strong; but, there’s strong and then there’s oversharing. 

“Alright,” Baz says.

“Just like that?” I can’t help but ask him. 

“You’re annoyingly attractive,” Baz drawls. “Why would I say ‘no’?” And then he grabs my jaw with his long hands, his fingers scraping against the sides of my scalp, and his mouth finally back on mine. 

This time, he’s in charge, and it’s fierce. He’s not allowing me to slow it down, and when his tongue slips into my mouth, I can’t help but allow my hands to roam underneath his shirt and grip his hips. 

It’s aggressive and hot. So fucking hot. 

Baz has a hold of my hair and is forcing my chin up, and I like it. Then he’s sucking on my neck and I close my eyes to just  _ feel _ . His chest is pressed against mine and my knees are weak. 

I can’t help the little groans that I’m making, especially when he slots his thigh in between mine. His knee is pressing up against the underside of my bollocks in such a way that I whimper.

I want him. I want Baz so badly that it’s causing my hands to tremble.

His mouth is coming up, tongue tracing my jawline until it finds its way between my teeth. 

I gasp when I feel Baz hard against my thigh. I’m hard, too. All from kissing and the anticipation that we might do more.

There’s a line of saliva between us when we break apart, and I should find that disgusting, but I don’t. I just want to keep going.

My hands wander up the back of his top, feeling his soft skin under my palms. His scent is overwhelmingly good, citrus and smoke; it leaves me lightheaded and my face flushes. His muscles are shifting as he tries to get closer to me, but it’s near impossible when we’re in the kitchen like this. 

I slide my hands further up until Baz takes the hint and allows me to take it off of him. And then he’s before me, topless, looking like a fucking Grecian statue. 

He has well-defined pecs and pert brown nipples, with just the right amount of chest hair leading down between his fucking eight pack. 

_ (Who the fuck has an eight pack?) _ (It’s utterly ridiculous.) 

Baz’s hair is mussed, but he runs a hand through it and it just makes everything so much worse. 

He smiles at me—with perfectly straight teeth—and it causes him to look so much warmer than he’s ever been towards me. My heart skips a beat at the general sight of him. I gently put his shirt on the countertop behind me.

I get caught up staring at his happy trail disappearing under the band of his jeans, which are slung low enough that the V of his hips shows.

“Are you going to take your top off now, too?” Baz asks with an arch of his brow. It’s how he usually looks at me, but it feels different this time. Maybe it’s because I’ve never seen so much skin. 

“What the fuck?” I blurt, and I can’t stop staring at his torso. Because, well, fuck. 

Baz tilts his head, a quizzical expression on his face, and I can’t help but watch how his black hair cascades over his bare shoulder, somehow enhancing the dips of his collarbone. The dim lighting in his flat only further adds to how ethereal he looks. “What?”

“Seriously?” I ask, and I can feel my chin jutting out towards him, “it’s like you’re bloody photoshopped!”

He laughs and it causes his stomach muscles to clench. Fucking  _ fuck _ . 

My hands are trembling and I’m nervous. My anxiety is beginning to spike because it’s been so long since I’ve had sex and Baz is practically perfect in every way to the point where he puts Mary Poppins to shame. 

“Look,” I say as I find myself tugging on my unruly curls—ignoring the fact that I styled it specifically to impress Baz—“it’s been a very long time since I’ve been naked with anyone.” And I’m just a little nervous now, I don’t say, because it’s bloody embarrassing.

“You’re incredibly awkward,” Baz tells me, leaning casually against the opposite counter, his palms out behind him and his legs crossed at the ankle like a fucking model. 

His teasing riles me up.  _ This  _ is familiar. I can work with this. I scoff and narrow my eyes at him.

“No. I’m sexy.” I’m lying through my teeth as I gesture to myself. “All of this? It’s pure sexual prowess.” 

He’s smirking at me now, “Might I remind you that I’ve seen you in your pants more than once?”

(Three times, actually, but I don’t add any comment to that.) (Twice, because I somehow got locked out while retrieving my washing from The Catacombs. And once, because he somehow got my post and I answered my door without thinking about putting on clothes.)

Without breaking eye contact, I tug my t-shirt off and place it beside his. Unlike Baz, my stomach is soft, and I have some extra meat on my bones due to poor life choices when it comes to food. I’ve never been ashamed of how I look, but I’m pale and covered in moles and freckles, with sparse chest hair and a strawberry blond happy trail. 

“Happy?” I ask while taking a step towards him, entering his personal space and feeling his body heat against my bare skin. 

“Ecstatic,” Baz says sarcastically. 

I lean forward and kiss him. Making sure to tangle our hands together and lace our fingers. I’m trembling—not because I’m scared, but because it’s so good. 

I kiss Baz until our tongues are tired. I kiss him until our mouths are sore. I enjoy the taste of his mouth and the feel of his breath against my cheek and his stubble against my chin and allow myself to have this. To feel him against me. 

He’s smiling when we pull apart.

“You haven't given me a proper tour,” I say, thinking myself smooth.

“Shall we start in the bedroom?” he asks, still holding on to my hand and pulling me behind him despite my knowing where it is since our flats are identical.

* * *

It’s starting to feel like the scene of an amateur adult film. And yet... This is my life.

I’m down to my pants and tube socks—which, for some reason, Baz asks me to keep on. (I can’t help but feel hot all over at the request.) (He obviously has some sort of clothing fetish, and I am here for it.)

We’re kissing, we haven’t properly stopped kissing. It’s so much skin on skin, and his bare legs keep brushing against mine as he holds himself above me, making me reach up for him. And I do, I’d keep leaning up into him if it meant that I could stay in this moment. 

I can feel him hard against my hip, and my hands keep going under the band of his black pants (no little lace frills—this time).

Baz kisses down my jaw and throat, stopping to pay extra attention to my Adam’s apple and it’s good. So good. He’s palming at me through my pants as he bites down on one of my nipples and I can’t suppress the whimper that escapes me. It’s been a very long time since anyone else has touched me intimately, and this is overwhelming in the best of ways.

“Sh—shouldn’t we, ah-” I hum as he sucks on a spot behind my ear that leaves me feeling tingles down my spine. “Naked. I want you naked.”

Baz nuzzles at me once more, nipping at my bottom lip before removing himself completely. 

“Yes, that sounds like a good idea.” And then he’s shimmying out of his pants, standing fully nude before me. 

Oh fuck. He’s so hot. He looks like a fucking Adonis. Of course. Of fucking course! He’s fucking beautiful and I can’t stop staring at him.

His cock is thick and its head glistens. It’s a shade off from his skin tone, but the fact that he’s an even brown throughout his body tells me that he probably tans. Nude. He’s so beautiful that it almost hurts to look at him. (Almost.) 

He’s giving me a predatory grin, showing off his canines and causing my mouth to go dry. “Well, Snow?”

I stumble as I get off of the bed and shimmy out of my pants. I can feel myself flush down to my navel, but Baz is staring at me with obvious want and it’s empowering.

He’s reaching for me again, and I meet him partway to kiss him. Baz’s mouth is warm and wet and familiar now that we’ve done it more than once. But I like it, the feel of his tongue against mine, the puff of his breath on my cheek. 

My hands are in his hair, but his hands are roaming down my ribs and belly, touching the tops of my thighs and dancing over any piece of skin that he can reach while we kiss. It causes me to break out into goosebumps and I can’t help the shiver the wracks through me. 

Baz gently pushes me back towards the bed until I get the hint and break away from him enough to lie back down with my head on the pillows. I’m aching all over, my want is strong enough that my hands tremble. 

“Stay right there,” Baz says as he rummages in his bedside table’s drawer. A moment later he has a bottle of lube and an unopened box of condoms (that he tears into) on his nightstand. 

I can only watch the movement of his hands, the veins that run along his knuckles, and his long fingers as he moves a condom or two. His fingernails are neatly trimmed, and his cuticles look well taken care of. I follow his fingers to his palms and then his wrists, which are bony yet strong. 

“I like how you listen to instructions,” Baz says as he leans back over me, dragging his hands over my body again. “You’re so good. Are you able to keep your hands to yourself?”

I want to say no, I can’t. I want to show him that I can put up a good fight; that it takes more than pretty words to get me to be so pliable underneath him. I want to roll on top of him and grind down until he’s fully inside of me. I want to ride him until my thighs give out. 

Instead, I nod bashfully. “Yes, I can.”

The smile that blooms over his face is beautiful. “Good, if it becomes too much just say ‘anathema’.”

“Exactly what do you plan on doing?” I ask as I narrow my eyes at him. I’m still hard, our thighs are touching and his body heat is enough to leave me yearning. 

“Make you feel good,” Baz answers. He says it so matter-a-factly, as if it should be obvious. I know that I’m tensing up because I hate not knowing what to expect. 

“It’s-” I can feel my ears heat up, “it’s been a while since I’ve, um…”

Baz chuckles. “Relax, I’ll take care of you.”

He leans forward and kisses my mouth again, soft and brief, before trailing his lips to other parts. His kisses are soft as he moves down my chin, and then back to my throat where he spends some time biting and sucking— _ marking _ . I swallow as he makes his way down to my sternum. I wonder if he can feel my heart thumping against my ribs. 

I grip the sheets by my head because I agreed to keep my hands to myself.

My stomach muscles clench as I watch him make a path further downwards. It’s hot, watching Baz. Feeling his hair tickling my stomach and his tongue and teeth against my skin. 

I close my eyes for a moment, just enjoying the sensation when I suddenly feel Baz’s tongue licking at my thigh. I look down at him, he’s kissing just under where I desperately want him to. 

“Put your legs over my shoulders,” Baz orders. He’s bossy in bed, and, once again, I consider putting up a fight, but I’m too desperate for him. Maybe next time. (I hope there’s a next time.)

He strokes at my socks for a moment before forcing my legs further apart as he slides himself between them, and then he’s helping me place them over his shoulders and I can’t help but inhale sharply. His skin is soft against the back of my thighs. 

“You’re doing so well,” Baz tells me. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous. Can you relax for me, love?”

The pet name makes me bite my lower lip. How can I relax when I’m so turned on that it hurts? I manage, I can feel myself sink further into the mattress. Baz moves my knees the way he wants to, and I’m wholly exposed. Then his tongue is lapping at the head of my cock and I almost forget that he has me wide open. 

His tongue.  _ Christ _ . I wish he would put his entire mouth on me. How good would that feel? I bet Baz gives amazing blowjobs. He’s got the mouth for it. Still, he’s licking at me like I’m a lollipop and I’m left quivering. 

He licks the seam of my balls and I groan at the feel of it.

“You can, uh,” I stare up at the ceiling, trying my best to think of words. 

Baz stops is licking, but keeps his mouth close though that I can feel the vibration of his words. “...I can?”

“I, uh, I,” I cover my face with my hands for a second before flopping them back down near my ears, “I cleaned myself earlier.”

There’s a beat of silence between us. And for a moment I think I’ve ruined the moment, which wouldn’t be surprising. I am a bit of a disaster. But then Baz licks lower still, until suddenly his tongue is pressed against my arsehole. The noise that escapes me is almost embarrassing. 

“ _ Ah, ah, ah _ ,” I let out, my breath is coming out shaky as I grip the sheets hard enough that I worry I may tear them. And then decide that it doesn’t matter if I do because Baz’s tongue is inside of me. “Holy fuck!”

I was hopeful earlier when I did a thorough cleaning of myself—inside and out—but now? I didn’t think that he’d be fucking me with his tongue! And it’s good, it’s so fucking good, I’m lost in the sensation of it. 

When I look down—past my dribbling red cock—to Baz, his eyebrows are furrowed and his hair is falling into his face and his hands are holding my arse cheeks apart as he goes to fucking town. He’s a professional at this. He’s the best. He’s so fucking talented and I want to weep. Of course he’s perfect at this too, his tongue knows how to take me apart, and he’s probably barely even trying. 

I think I’m whining, but I can’t hear myself. My toes are curling and the socked heels of my feet scrap against the wings of his shoulders. 

I’m not sure how long we’re like this, but I’m drooling a little, with my cock steadily leaking onto my belly. My body is a live wire, and I whine loudly as Baz lifts his head. I almost grip him by the triceps and pull him back onto me—the hands to myself rule be damned.

Where the fuck is he going? Oh, he’s got the lube back in his hand.

Baz sits and I stare up at him from where I’m lying down. (Fuck, he’s fit.)

His mouth and chin are wet with saliva and I want to lick it off of his face. 

“You’re so good, Simon,” Baz says to me. “You haven’t moved your hands at all.”

I shake my head. 

“Such a good boy,” Baz says as he opens the cap of the lube and pours some over my cock. His hand soon follows, pumping me a few times and causing me to hiss before spreading it further down until he’s between my cheeks again. 

“I want to suck you off,” I say. Because I do. I want to taste his precum and the skin of his cock. I want to feel it stiffen in my mouth. 

“Later,” Baz promises, “we have time. Let me do this first, okay?”

I nod. 

His fingers are tracing my rim and I close my eyes to brace myself for the breach, but it doesn’t happen. 

When I look back at Baz, he’s got a brow raised at me. It takes all of my willpower to not kick him. (Honestly, he’s treating me too well to bother resorting to violence.)

“A nod is not an answer,” Baz says. He’s the devil, he has to be. He’s evil incarnate. He’s plotting my demise. I hate him so much. “You’ve been doing fantastically, and your good behaviour has been rewarded. Hasn’t it?” I can feel the tip of his finger press against me. 

“Yes,” I say, “yes, yes, I’ll let you do whatever, just, fuck. Baz,  _ please.” _

“So polite,” Baz croons in a voice that’s thick and sinful. And then he has a finger in me, finding my prostate on the first try and rubbing against it with the right amount of pressure, causing me to melt.

I’m growling. It’s a sound so deep in my chest that I feel it more than hear it. My teeth are bared and I probably look like an animal, but I can’t help it. My hips move on their own accord as pleasure tingles in my limbs. I’m having trouble breathing, it’s been way too long since I’ve felt like this, too long since someone’s had me under their thumb and at their mercy. 

“Too much?” Baz asks as he enters a second finger and uses it just as accurately as the first. 

The hot pressure is mounting and I know what it means. I know what’s going to happen. Yet, I press into it, I move my hips to the best of my ability despite being stuck with my knees over his shoulders. I’m moaning loudly and gasping and trying to focus on breathing.

“I think I’m gonna die,” I say. 

He laughs, and it’s a dark thing that tells me he’s nowhere near done with me yet. “I think you’ll be okay.”

My body is beginning to shiver and I know the end is here. 

“I’m gonna cum!” I say, but Baz doesn’t stop massaging against my gland and I’m so happy he hasn’t. My entire body is tensing, just ready for the fall. 

“Show me,” Baz says. “Come on, Simon. Show me.”

I take in a deep breath and hold it as it hits me hard. My ears are ringing and my eyes close on their own accord as my jaw clenches shut tightly. It’s too much, but not enough. I can feel myself leaking endlessly up my belly and the hot liquid is running off the side onto the sheets as the relief of orgasm takes over. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” I whimper, slowly letting go of the blankets. My fingers ache from holding on for dear life, and my body is boneless as I sag helplessly into the mattress.

I’m still hard. I know that it’ll just take a few pumps to get me over the edge again, but instead of even thinking about it, I’m staring up at Baz, who’s looking at me with reverence. 

“Alright?” Baz asks as he slowly puts my legs down. My hips ache once they’re placed on the bed again––I’m not as flexible as I used to be. His hands are petting my thighs and his cock is curved up to his bellybutton. 

“Yeah,” I say. My stomach is still clenching a bit with aftershocks, but I’m bloody fantastic. 

“You’re so lovely,” Baz says as he fondles my bollocks, and I moan again. 

I want to reach out and touch him back, to paw at him desperately and have my wicked way with him, but, at the same time, I don’t want him to stop. I  _ really  _ don’t want him to stop. 

“Oh yeah, sure. Nothing like my orgasm face to get the mood going.”

“You’re dramatic,” Baz says as he pushes one of my legs up towards my chest.

“Really?” I ask, thinking back to all of our previous interactions. “You’re one to ta- _ aah _ !” 

He’s fingering me again, massaging me. I’m dying, this is death. This has to be death. My eyes are rolled to the back of my head and I’m moaning shamelessly. I leave my mouth open, desperately trying to get air into my lungs. 

“Baz, I just—I can’t—it’s too much—fuck—Baz. Baz,  _ Baz _ , oh my fucking God.”

“Shh, you’re almost there. You can do it. Come on, you can.”

The second orgasm is just as intense as the first.

“There we go, I knew you were capable. Good boy.”

He’s milking me for all that I’m worth, my orgasm feels never-ending, until one of my hands moves on its own accord and weakly touches his forearm. 

“Foreplay not your thing?” Baz asks as he gently removes his fingers. My muscles spasm at the feel of them dragging against my inner walls. 

“There’s a difference between foreplay and torture.” I lean up on my elbows. My body feels weak as I do it, but I force myself to stay upright. I jut my chin out for a silent kiss, which he grants me. And once we break apart, I say. “Stop teasing and fuck me.”

“I’m not sure if I should; you touched me,” Baz points out. 

I try to arch a brow at him but both of them go up instead. We stare at each other for a moment, and I’m aware that this is nothing like any other sexual experience I’ve ever had. Orgasms aside, it’s fun. We’re having fun. I hope this isn’t a one-time thing, I hope we get to do this again. And again, and possibly a few more times for many more years. 

“Basilton.”

“Simon.”

I want to continue to stare him down, to look into his eyes (which have gotten so dark that the initial grey is nothing more than a ring around his expanded pupil) until he blinks. He has amazing self-control, but I don’t. 

I break first, my mouth twisting into a smile of its own accord. It’s only after I lose that Baz grins back at me. 

“If I must,” he says. His gaze, however, is anything but exasperated. “I suppose I should fuck you.”

I roll my eyes at him. “How do you want me?”

“Hands and knees,” Baz says. 

My legs are weak but I manage to get on my knees and bend forward so that I’m holding the pillow close to me. My arse is in the air for him. I twist my head and watch as he opens one of the condoms. I want to be the one to put it on him, but I hold that thought. There has to be a next time. I’ve been good, Baz has said so, and I think next time I’d like to take him for a proper ride. 

His hands are spreading me apart again, making room for himself.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Baz says, and then I feel the blunt head of his cock. 

Baz is moving slowly, so slowly that it’s almost torture. It feels good, but he’s much thicker than his two fingers. Thicker and longer. Then he shifts his hips just so and suddenly my face is pressed against the pillow and I moan loudly as his cock rubs effortlessly against my prostate.

How is he so fucking good at that? 

The sharp slap to my arse causes me to whine. It stings, but it’s a nice distraction from him pushing into me. I’m going delirious with pleasure, left as little more than a gasping mess.

“Head up, Snow, I want to hear every little noise you make,” Baz says.

I can feel his bollocks flushed against my taint as he bottoms out. And then, as he tries to press in even further still.

“Fuck,” I manage to gasp. “ _ Fuck _ !”

“That’s what we’re doing,” Baz says, but his voice is rough. He’s beginning to lose composure as he slides out and then back in. Out, in. Out, in. The force of his thrusts aren’t hard, but they’re not gentle. His pace is perfect, and it’s driving me mad. 

“Give it to me!” I growl. I reach behind me and try to press him in further by his thigh, only to have him grab my wrist and pin it behind my back, causing me to flop forward again. “I hate you so much,” I sob as he pistons into me. 

“Liar,” Baz says, but it comes out almost like a snarl. 

Our skin is slapping together, and Baz lets go of my wrist to pull me up so that my back is nearly flushed with his chest. This brings him in even deeper and I can hardly handle it. My head lolls against his shoulder and he kisses my exposed throat while holding me to him with his right arm. 

“It’s so good,” I whine. 

Baz laughs breathlessly against my throat. “It’ll get better.”

I don’t see how, until his sneaky left hand wraps itself around my cock. 

I choke on nothing at the feel of it. My bollocks are tightening immediately, and my hands grab at whichever part of Baz they can. One flies up to his right wrist and the other to his left and I stare down at his brown hand against the pink skin of my cock. I’m leaking so much that his fist moves against me smoothly in time with his thrusts. 

He’s grunting and moaning softly against my neck and it’s the hottest sound I’ve ever heard. 

“ _ Baz _ ,” I warble, but I can’t remember what else I’m going to say. This is it, this is the end of Simon Snow. 

“Are you going to cum, darling?” Baz asks as he nips at my earlobe. 

I nod helplessly, my arm reaching behind me to grab at his silky black hair. I want to continue to see his hand fly up and down my cock, but the feeling of him inside of me and the sensation of him stroking me and the sound of him in my ears and the smell of our sex—it’s too much. I’m going off before I can stop myself— _ loudly _ . 

It’s an entire production, and I’m only quieted when Baz tilts my head towards his so he can kiss me sloppily. It’s more drool and teeth than a proper kiss, but I cry into it and grip his hair tighter. 

I’m not sure how long my orgasm lasts, I’m not sure if it’s eternity or a second. Time isn’t real. Nothing but this moment between us is. 

I think I blackout, but I know that my face is wet as Baz thrusts hard into me, gripping my hips with both hands and causing me to convulse as I try to stay still for him. Try to stay good. The pleasure is as sharp as a knife, and I know it’s only a matter of time before I’m overly sensitive, but I’d stay like this as long as I can. 

“Yeah,” I moan, “Baz, yeah, just like that. Just like that, oh fuck.”

“Where do you want it?” he asks, his fingertips digging in hard enough that I know they’ll leave marks. 

“Inside!” I answer, “inside, inside!”

He snarls as he cums and it’s a sound that shakes me down to my core. Holy shit. 

I clench down on him, causing him to quake. I do it once more and Baz lightly smacks my arse cheek before pulling out. 

He leans his head on my shoulder, his hair spilling across my collar while he tries to catch his breath, panting against my shoulderblade. 

My limbs are boneless, and my eyes are heavy. There’s an obvious wet spot by my knees but I don’t care. My arse and bollocks are still tightening and untightening, and my hands are still shaking. 

It’s a few moments before Baz slowly climbs out of bed. Throwing the tied condom into the bin near the door. He stretches his arms above his head and leans himself back, and the shift of his skin has me wanting to kiss it. Instead of doing that, however, I take that as my cue to flop forward onto his very comfortable mattress.

“I’m going to order pizza,” Baz says as he grabs his phone from where it was charging on the bedside table, “I’m going to assume that you’re a meat lover?”

“You’re hilarious,” I say dryly. 

I don’t argue with him. My body is too heavy and I could sleep here, surrounded by the faint smell of sex, sweat, cedar and bergamot. 

Baz sits beside me, mindful of the wet spot, and pets my hair off of my forehead as he opens the app to whatever pizzeria he orders from. I close my eyes and I’m beginning to doze off when he speaks again, his voice a pitch lower than normal. “You’ll need plenty of rest for the next round.”

My eyes fly open and I can’t help but stare up at him. “You’re insatiable. I always knew you were plotting my demise.” 

He grins impishly ( _ evilly)  _ before kissing me sweetly on the mouth. A shiver runs down my spine as I consider what he might have planned for us. I know I want it, whatever it is. (And maybe, if I ask nicely, he’ll put those knickers on for me, too.)

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on **[tumblr](https://xivz.tumblr.com/)**!


End file.
